


switzerland

by cartoonheart



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22150945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartoonheart/pseuds/cartoonheart
Summary: Andrew stares pointedly back, all square shoulders and assertive posture. He's not one to cower in the face of any of her moods, and she's always appreciated that about him in the past.
Relationships: Meredith Grey/Andrew DeLuca
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78





	switzerland

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is just something I wrote randomly a while ago and wasn't really sure whether I was going to post it - especially as I have so many other things I should be writing at the moment. But I'm still on vacation and don't have any time to write until I'm back home, so I thought it was okay to let this one see the light of day.
> 
> It's kind of a "nothing" fic, aka, nothing really happens. But that's kind of normal for me, I'm afraid. Apologies to those who expected more. Timeline wise, it's broadly set after the events of 16x06 - once Meredith has been released from jail having had to make up her missed work crew hours.
> 
> Thanks as ever to [KatieWho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatieWho/pseuds/KatieWho), my beta. Always making sure my spelling is corrected before I embarrass myself!

"This bedroom needs to be Switzerland," he says one night, from across the other side of the room. He's in the middle of emptying the pockets of his jeans, taking out his phone, his wallet, and placing them on the bedside table with a satisfying thud.

 _Switzerland_? Meredith's mind goes straight to Cristina, of course, because that's the only real link her life has with a country so far away, across so many time zones and miles. 

She stops and stares at him across the width of her bed, watches the way his muscles move under the slim fit of his shirt. Although things have been... uneasy lately, the way her body reacts is - as ever - simple and clear.

"What?" she questions, her tone a little sharper than she means it to be. They're not fighting, but they're not _not_ fighting either. It's not bad enough that she wants him out of her sight, but it's bad enough that his presence lacks the ease they usually find together. It's been like that lately, like they're walking a tightrope, and at any minute they could both fall off and into the abyss. Tonight has been no exception.

He visibly bristles at her tone, before softening a little when her frown makes it clear that his train of thought has genuinely lost her. Nevertheless, Andrew stares pointedly back, all square shoulders and assertive posture. He's not one to cower in the face of any of her moods, and she's always appreciated that about him in the past. 

"Like it's neutral territory," he elaborates after a moment. His expression is a strange mix of a scowl and a look of hunger that is as familiar to her as the back of her own hand. Meredith toys with the top button of her shirt, under the guise that she's going to get undressed for bed, and she sees his eyes flash in response. 

Maybe he has a point.

"Explain," she demands, as her wrist manoeuvres the button undone, and she sees his glare tighten further. His own hand rises to the neck of his shirt, pulls it over his head in one swift and deliberate movement. After all this time, Meredith is very aware that Andrew can give as good as he gets.

He drops his shirt to the floor without ceremony, and doesn't even pretend to hide the challenge in his eyes. The plains of his skin look perfect in the dim lamp light, like something carved out of stone - all defined lines and swells of sinew. And even though her anger is still simmering below the surface, the way he looks is like some unholy thing sent down to tempt and distract her.

She won't let him know that, of course, even though she's sure he must guess it. He's got plenty of historical evidence to rely on, and Meredith's not been shy about the way she enjoys his body. But as of right now, she doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. Instead, her fingers flick open another button, slowly, carefully, making sure to part the fabric as it comes loose. Throughout Meredith makes sure her stare doesn't disconnect from his own. She refuses to break first, even though she's not sure when this turned into a competition, or even just a game that she needed to win. Andrew's stubborn, but Meredith knows his weaknesses by now. She knows she's one of them, even when they are barely being civil.

As a rule she tries not to draw comparison between Derek and Andrew. But the feeling in this room right now hits her straight in the gut. It's the same feeling that she had with Derek: knowing that she could both dislike him and still love and want him at the same time. Perhaps she's got a messed up way of processing love. Or perhaps she can only love when she can also hate, and Meredith wonders if she can blame that on her mother or father or both.

In fairness, she doesn't hate Andrew any more than he hates her right now. That's to say, they're in love, but they can't always agree - and lately, with her hearing looming, and her fresh out of a jail cell - that seems to be more than usual. Andrew appears to be determined to protect her from a mess of her own making, and maybe if she was a princess in a fairytale that would be okay. But Meredith is not that person - never has been - and so she doesn't need some handsome prince to swoop in and try to make everything better. She's made her bed, and she'll lie in it, thank you very much.

"Neutral territory?" she echoes, as the last button on her shirt comes free and she shrugs the entire thing off her shoulders. She thanks some sort of foresight that her lace bra is up to the task of driving him mad, even though, to be fair, Andrew always reacts with the same level of awe and eagerness regardless of what she's wearing. It's one of the little things she appreciates about him.

She's rewarded with the raise of a dark eyebrow, that familiar head tilt of his. He still looks unimpressed with her, and she can understand that, given the heated discussion they'd had downstairs less than ten minutes ago. They've been going in circles on this same issue for the last few days, and Meredith knows he's got her on the ropes. But tonight she was in no mood to capitulate, and so she'd announced she was going to bed, and had left him alone in her kitchen, staring after her. 

A part of her had expected to hear the sound of her front door slamming, the rev of his motorcycle as he'd turned on the ignition. After all, she wouldn't blame him really, given that she'd been on the attack, and he'd been her convenient target. Still, Meredith had hovered at the threshold of her bedroom, waiting for a sign as to his decision. She didn't have to wait long, her ears soon catching the sound of his heavier tread on her floorboards, and the familiar creak of the stairs as he headed up towards her. She has to respect him for that. Meredith is even now still learning that Andrew has an uncanny knack for showing up for her even when she thinks she has pushed him too far.

"This room," he says now, with deliberate slowness, "should be a place where we leave any anger, any disagreements, at the door." With each word he makes his way incrementally towards her, like he's tentatively crossing the battle line. "If we want to fight - and we _will_ fight - then that's fine, but it doesn't make its way into this room." 

There is something about the way he moves, much like a lion stalking its prey, lithe and strong and sensual. It's disturbing that even though her anger is still crackling inside her, still fizzing away at his presence, it's becoming less and less important the closer he gets.

He stops in front of her, close enough to touch, but far enough away that she doesn't immediately fold herself into him like she normally might. Part of her wants to win, doesn't want to submit to any of his suggestions as sensible as they are, as beneficial as they might be to their relationship going forward. Andrew's more than proven his point about everything recently, and Meredith's not used to being wrong. That's part of the reason why she's mad at him. Because he foresaw her situation, the repercussions, when she did not. He'd predicted her future like some sort of soothsayer, and it was like rubbing salt in an open wound.

To be fair to him, he hasn't proclaimed victory. There’s been no 'I told you so' or 'I warned you'-s. If there had been, maybe Meredith would feel more justified in her anger. But if anything, he's been soft and supportive and that had made her even more annoyed. How can he let this just wash over him after all the things she'd said about him not knowing her? Had he no backbone, or was it just that she was waiting for him to throw it back in her face when she least expected it? Instead, she knows she preempted it; she'd gotten mad at something small, and the spark had turned into a flame until he was angry that she was angry, and here they were again.

"What if I don't agree?" she says then, not because she doesn't want to, but because she's feeling petty and maybe she wants the push and pull. He gives her that better than anyone, and there's an excitement to those exchanges that she hasn't felt in years. Fighting with Andrew is far more satisfying than being on good terms with anyone else these days.

His eyes rake up and down her torso, lingering less than subtly on the lace cups of her bra. She sees the muscles in his jaw vibrate before he focuses back on her face again. While she waits for his reply, Meredith reaches up and unwinds her hair from her ponytail, letting it fan softly around her shoulders, and she feels his exhale rather than sees it. It's the smallest of victories.

"Do you want to keep fighting?" The arch tone in his voice does things to her that she wishes it didn't. She itches for him to touch her, her skin is gasping out for his hands. 

Something must flash across her face - she couldn't say what - but his expression fast becomes one of dawning realisation. "Ahh," he breathes finally, taking half a step closer, and it's like her body has been hit with an electric current. "You _like_ the fighting." His voice is low, and she feels the dark corners of his words swirling around in her chest. God, he's right, he's right, isn't he? But how can she admit to that?

But she doesn't need to, of course, because he can read her by now. She's still not used to the fact that Andrew's perceptive in a way that she never was at his age. It only takes a slight flicker and all her tells are his to read. His head tilts again, and he leans closer, his mouth inches away from her own, breath ghosting across her lips. "That's it, isn't it? You don't want neutral. That's the last thing you want."

She'd damn him to hell if he wasn't so right. Her fists curl at her side, if only to stop herself from reaching out for him - to punch him, to pull him closer, she's not really sure. But the visceral hunger inside of her is becoming more and more insatiable the longer they glare at each other, and she'd be lying if she said that this isn't the most turned on she's been in ages.

Resolutely, Meredith says nothing. Admitting he's right is like losing yet another battle, and she's already well on the way to losing the war. She needs every minor victory she can get. So she can't acknowledge the truth. She _won't_.

But he inches closer again, although still doesn't make contact with her. There is barely any space left between them now. It strikes her that Andrew has figured out her game almost as fast as she's realised she's playing it, and part of her wants to laugh. They're both too mature for this really, but it's been a rough few weeks - few months actually - and maybe this is how all of that tension needs to come to a head.

She can feel the heat of his body permeating off him in waves, touching her skin even when he is not. It's like a slow form of torture, like watching herself from outside her body, slowly drowning even when she has the option to save herself. His lips position themselves next to her ear before he delivers the _coup de grace_ : "Tell me I'm wrong."

Her head tilts back of its own accord, a gesture of supplication if there ever was one. There's a beat, a pause, and she knows he's waiting to see which way she'll go. But there's never been a real choice when it came to him, not from the second he kissed her on that rooftop all that time ago - right up to minutes ago where he'd decided to stay instead of walking out.

Meredith takes a breath. "You're wrong," she says as her hands slide up his bare chest and she feels him shudder in response. Her words are a lie, and she thinks he probably knows it. But there's only so much she has left in her, and he knows that too. Besides, this was never about who was right, even though they both know it is probably him. It's about the fact that she wants to save herself, and he wants to save her, and the tension between those two things has felt insurmountable until now.

"Liar," he growls as his rough grasp finds her hips. It's not enough to hurt her, but certainly enough for her to _feel_ it. Meredith's so worked up that she almost hopes he leaves a mark - something tangible to show for all of this, something symbolic of this whole situation. He won't, of course, because he's not that guy, but something deep within her likes the idea of finding his fingerprints on her skin tomorrow, and she refuses to feel guilty about that.

But right now she has nothing to say, because once again, he's found her out. She is a liar, and not a very good one at that. Because Meredith knows she has no interest in neutrality. He is not neutral to her, not in the slightest, and there is no point in pretending otherwise. Even then, Andrew doesn't do neutral - he's incapable of it, she thinks. He's all or nothing, unconditional support or a burning fire and there's something exciting about that - something that she's been missing for far too long.

She can feel this thumbs tucked against her hip bones, and at the sensation her back arches instinctively, daring him to make a move. His stare intensifies, and she can see he is hovering on the edge too, weighing up his options. 

In the end, he capitulates, his firm grip becoming the thing that tugs her into him, and his mouth finds hers with such force that she can barely catch her breath.

Meredith knows that even if he's lost this battle, he's still won the war. Because even as he gives into her, it is because he knows she needs this, and so as always, he's placed her need above his as he inevitably always does. It's frustrating that even when she wins, she still loses because at the end of the day, he loves her too much to not sacrifice himself. And as much she wants to berate him for it, deep down she can't help but admire him.

"I don't want to be neutral with you," she finally says breathlessly between the moments his lips leave hers, and then return again. She's not sure what she expects him to say to that - because she's not sure what it really says about her, about how her brain chooses to process the complexities of life.

She hears him laugh against her, a rumble centred somewhere deep in his chest, and slowly rising. It's not the reaction she was expecting, but she should be used to that by now. Nevertheless, she jerks her head back out of his reach in surprise, leaving him fumbling.

He looks momentarily confused, before his face slides back into that stupid grin of his that she loves, even when she doesn't love it. "It's a good thing that I feel anything _but_ neutral about you, Mere." 

It only takes seconds for his hands to slide up the backs of her thighs and before she knows it, her legs are tight around his waist. Only a few seconds more and she's pressed between him and the closed door of her bedroom, a slight rattle as it shakes on its hinges at the weight of them both. He holds her firmly, securely, and there's something so effortlessly raw about the way he responds to her that Meredith knows she will fight for this - with him, for him - for as long and as hard as she can.

Win, lose, she's not really sure it matters in the end. The battles will happen anyway. So Switzerland be damned.


End file.
